Like a yacht without a rudder
We’re cast asunder on the waves
Now our manager’s felt the utter disdain
Of a Muscovite blokes traits.
Now Henk has gone or so I’m told
I’m totally confused
Shall I go and blow me hard earned dough
On another season ticket, to watch beloved blues?
Steve Clarke’s en route to Goodison Park
Or so our grapevine says
Tin tacked by a cash-rich oligarch
Who it has to be said, is rarely seen at any games
Said money’s left me bank account
So I’m sort of stuck you see
With a plastic seat down at Stamford Bridge
To sit and watch in anguish, our gaffer-less first team!